The Day of Doom
I was dressed demurely in a pleated skirt and polo-neck jumper, with my grandmother’s pearls and her marcasite watch. I own only ‘insensible’ ones, but the charity shop had yielded a pair of navy court shoes. Perfect.
My friends chipped in with advice: no cleavage, minimum make-up, keep schtum about the piercing. (It had almost healed anyway, and if I sat still it didn’t hurt too much.)
The IN and OUT driveway unnerved me. He swerved onto the gravel, insisting that I “Chill, for God’s sake! - and why are you wearing a coat all buttoned up on a warm day like this, anyway?”
Afternoon tea was the ordeal I’d anticipated, and on my way to the bathroom before we left I overheard his mother on the phone in the kitchen, “...Oh no, ... over my dead body... she’s a right frump!”
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